by Daniel Church

Author Daniel Church shares a scary story with us this week, as he prepares for the release of his latest horror novel The Sound of the Dark.

When I was small, we’d often stay with my grandmother in Barmouth, on the coast of North Wales. A beautiful part of the world. She was a lovely, fierce old woman with a rich, croaky voice, and I adored her. I was her favorite too. Which is why I have this tale to tell.

She died fifteen years ago. Everyone gets cremated these days, but not her: they buried her in the churchyard at Llanaber, just up the coast from where she lived, beside the church where she married my grandfather in September 1939. It overlooks the Cardigan Bay. There are worse places to rest.

I go each October. Book into a hotel on Marine Parade, overlooking the empty promenade. I visit her grave during the day, give her stone a good clean, and pull up any weeds that have sprouted there.

Then I go back into Barmouth, have steak and chips at the Last Inn by the Quay. Return to the hotel. And on the night of the 31st, I fill one Thermos with coffee and another with soup, pack them into a rucksack along with a folding camping chair, and wrap up warm. Then I walk up the promenade to the coast road, and along that to the church at Llanaber. I climb over the gate and walk along the line of graves nearest the road until I reach hers. And then I set up the folding chair, and settle down for the night.

My gran’s cousin used to do this, till he became too ill to carry on. So he told me–because I was her favourite––and passed the job along. And now the work is mine.

It’s a long night, but I have to stay awake. The coffee helps. Sometimes the Man only comes once, sometimes more. One night he tried five times, although that was exceptional. But sooner or later he always comes, and I’ve got to be awake when he does.

And it’s very easy to fall asleep. It’s quiet of an evening, along the coast road; on calm nights you can hear the waves breaking on the rocky beach below.

On those quiet nights, you can hear when the Man comes out of the sea. Hear the click and clack of stones on the beach as he crawls over them. Silence as he crosses the railway tracks by the shore; then the scraping as he scales the rocky bluffs above them.

And you wait and watch, until his smooth, white head appears over the top of the cemetery wall.

He doesn’t look like much. A middle-aged man, bald above the ears. Pot-bellied. Double-chinned. You could pick a dozen like him out on any city street at lunch hour, except that he’s naked. And wet from the sea. And on all fours, like an animal.

And his hands are webbed, like a frog’s. And his fingers end in claws.

He watches. Stares. Doesn’t blink once as he creeps forwards, through the stones. If looks could kill, as the saying goes––oh, I’d be long dead. But they can’t. Nor can any of his hissing or snarling. He’d love to attack me, but I don’t believe he’s allowed. Although each time, he does his best to convince me that tonight’ll be different.

But I stay put, and I keep an eye on him, no matter how carefully he sneaks through the graves towards my grandmother’s. And while I’m there, he can’t come near.

I don’t know why he wants her. I’ve a hard time believing my gran could have ever done anything worthy of blame. Maybe that’s why he’s after her. There can’t be much left of her now, down there. And if there is anything else left––a soul or a spirit or whatever you say––I wouldn’t have thought it’d be greatly bothered by whatever happened to those remains.

But, well – would you take the chance?

If it was somebody that you’d loved?

And as I said, I loved my gran.

Maybe it’s pointless. Maybe it’s just a matter of time till he gets what he wants. Or maybe one year he’ll give up, or whatever he’s after will have rotted away.

You just can’t tell.

So every year, I go. Every year, I wait. Every year, the Man crawls back over the cemetery wall and returns to the sea unsatisfied. And every year, when dawn finally comes, I pack up my flasks and my folding chair and go back along the coast road and the promenade to my hotel on Marine Parade. Sleep all day. Go home the next. And that’s it.

Until the next Halloween.

And the next, and the next, and the next. Like the waves on the shore, wearing the rocks and cliffs and mountains down to sand.

ABOUT THE BOOK:
In 1983 experimental artist Tony Mathias began work on a new installation – a collage of visuals and sounds collected at an abandoned RAF base called Warden Fell. Various stories and rumours swirled around the place, but Tony was interested only in the echoes of history. However, soon after visiting the site to tape-record the sounds there, Tony returned to the caravan – where he was staying with his family – and killed his wife, his two children and then himself. Another dark twist in Warden Fell’s history?
Decades later, Cally Darker gets the chance to investigate the terrible story and perhaps even solve the mystery – a fantastic exclusive story for her true-crime podcast.
Tony’s actress sister Stella is desperate for the mystery to be solved before she dies. Eager to do all she can to help, she passes on the tapes left behind by her brother. But before long, Cally realises that Warden Fell has a far older and darker story to tell.
Be careful what you listen to… The Sound of the Dark unleashes a horror from deep time into the light of the day. When you hear it, a door opens and nothing, not even yourself, will ever be the same again..

You can click here to purchase this book from Amazon.

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Daniel Church grew up in Manchester, and he still lives in the North of England. His first novel, THE HOLLOWS, was short-listed for the 2023 British Fantasy Society’s Horror Novel of the Year, and THE RAVENINF was published in September 2024. Find Daniel on BlueSky.

Disclosure: This post contains links to an affiliate program, for which we receive a few cents if you make purchases. KRL also receives free copies of most of the books that it reviews, that are provided in exchange for an honest review of the book.